Hard on his Heels
by BlackDeicide
Summary: After losing their mother, both, Alasdair and Arthur, have become bitter about the world. They both try to change things for the better; one by justice, one by crime. In the foggy streets of London, Alasdair Kirkland tries to keep his unwanted feelings to himself and save his brother from the dangerous path he'd taken. Cop!Scotland/Thief!England aka Male/Male, AU.


The first thing Alasdair Kirkland saw the day after the National Gallery in London had been robbed of some of its most prized possessions was a man's image; frozen in the movement of pointing a gun right at the security camera, his cocky smirk and the mischievous glint in those emerald eyes forever caught on the tape.

The Scot stared at the monitor in front of him, too lost in his own thoughts to even notice the way the cigarette between his lips had burned down; the faint gleam had died down long ago without him even taking a single drag. He sat, slightly hunched over his desk; the only light in the small room provided by the flickering image on the terminal, creating a pale, unearthly glow on his skin and making his fiery red hair seem as weary as he actually felt. He jumped slightly, as his brain finally registered the steps approaching. The redhead sighed, plucked the pitiful remnants of the fag from his lips and threw it into the ashtray carelessly.

There was no way he was going to live this down. He just knew it.

Barely a second later, the footsteps stopped and the door was thrown open forcefully and in stepped an all too familiar woman. Her muddy brown hair cascaded well past her lean shoulders and her curvy body was clad in a simple, navy blue coat and skirt, successfully accentuating the brunette's already stunning bosom. Not that she was interested in impressing anyone in the office; but it was a pleasant way to make sure she got enough attention when needed.

"Hey, Alas. You finished moping yet?"

He didn't move a muscle and kept his gaze glued to the monitor. She sighed, toying with her hair a little. He rolled his eyes at her; sometimes, she just seemed to forget just how good he knew her. Playing the coy, shy lass wouldn't work on him.

After a moment, she seemingly remembered that fact, too, and huffed slightly.

"Okay, scratch that. You obviously haven't."

"Shut your trap, Nessie. What do you want?" he snapped back.

The younger woman was about to retort, but then she thought better of it. Usually Alasdair was only this bitchy towards cack-handed co-workers. Or any of their superior officers. Or his younger brothers. Well, actually, now that she thought about it, he was this bitchy towards anyone but her. Usually.

Her slender brows furrowed and she worried her full bottom lip with her teeth a little, before she forced her usual smile on her face.

"Don't call me that, tosser." She came to stand right behind him and carefully slipped her arms around his still seated figure, resting her chin on his shoulder.

The redhead scoffed, but couldn't keep the grin from his face entirely. As always, his old friend's presence helped calming his searing nerves, and his fingers played idly with a few stray strands of her hair falling down over his shoulder and chest.

"It's not my fault your parents decided to name you after a fucking monster."

Slightly relieved to hear a trace of the usual teasing tone under his insults, she nuzzled her face into his neck comfortably.

"At least my name doesn't sound like an old geezer's, idiot."

He huffed and tugged at the brown bangs in his hand idly. "So, Niseag, why are you here?"

"Can't I just stop by to check up on my good, old, grumpy friend?"

Upon registering the deadpanned look on her good, old, grumpy friend's face, the brunette laughed, unwinding her arms from around him and grabbing onto the back of his chair instead. With a forceful shove she turned the whole thing with the Scot sitting in it to face her, the cheap and used office chair creaking dangerously under the unfamiliar force.

"You should stop worrying so much about him. He made it out again, didn't he?"

Bottle green eyes widened slightly, before he caught himself and narrowed them to angry slits.

"Yes. He made it out; _again_. That's exactly the problem! I do not 'worry for him', Nessie! I'm supposed to _catch_ him. It is my _job_. It's what I'm supposed to do."

For a moment, she merely looked at him, her face completely blank. Then, she smirked, turned, and let herself fall into his lap unceremoniously; completely disregarding the chair's muffled cry of agony under their combined weight.

"Ah, my dearest friend…Have I ever told you how bad of a liar you are?"

"I'm not-

"_Yes_, you are. You can't fool my ever oh-so-watchful eyes, sweetheart, you should know that by now. Remember that one time I found out about your slightly creepy but very endearing crush on your little brother?"

The Scot shifted underneath her; his jaw tensed and he swallowed hard. She was slowly getting to him – and this horrible wench _knew_ it. She always knew exactly what buttons to push to make him loose their little battle.

"He's not my brother…" he protested weakly. There was absolutely no way he was going down without at least a tad bit of resistance; he still had some kind of pride, after all.

"Oh, right. Excuse me; he's your _half_-brother, right? So what? You're only half a creep now?"

He glared at her from behind and shoved at her shoulders roughly; enough was enough. He was trying to block out all this shit and concentrate on his job. He didn't need her to remind him of what he couldn't forget anyway.

He had made his decision and so had his brother. He'd simply have to live with that now; and that was hard enough without her meddling.

However, the woman in his lap only laughed good-humouredly and swung her left leg forth and back, hitting him in the shin none too gently.

"Aww, come on, Alas! You know I don't have anything against your very…peculiar love interest!"

The Scotsman huffed, silently thinking about just how perfect a cigarette would now be; just to relax and calm his nerves a bit…Shaking his head, he growled silently.

"What is your point then, Niseag? If you came here to tease me, you can just go again. If possible, _before_ I find myself forced to throttle you with your own necklace."

The woman's grin faded, and she looked serious all of a sudden; sad, even. Her gaze was turned down towards the pale grey carpet, but every now and then, she would look back over his shoulder at the monitor.

Her voice was unusually quiet as she finally spoke.

"What did he do this time, Alas?"

Alasdair fell silent for a few long moments. Then, after a sigh and a hand running through his blazing red hair, he leaned his head forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

The cloth of her coat was coarse, stiff and he could taste cigarettes, perfume and, somewhere, underneath all of that, her skin; she had always smelled of clear lakes and fresh dew on a fair morning. But now she insisted on wearing a brand of perfume that made her smell of flowers and fruits and all that other girly shit she didn't actually give a single fuck about.

Sometimes he found it quite ironic how she always told him to stay true to himself – when she herself didn't even do it.

As he eventually spoke, his lips scraped against the fabric roughly.

"National Gallery; stole seven or eight paintings. Michelangelo, Botticelli…You know, the famous, invaluable shit again. The only evidence for his presence is actually the security camera's video. Useless piece of shit didn't even survive a single bullet, though."

"I don't know what to do anymore, Nessie. I don't want them to catch him. But he can't keep this up, either. Ah, shit. I…I just don't know anymore. What should I do, huh?"

The brunette sighed deeply.

"What do you want to do, Alasdair?"

The red-haired man stared at the blue cloth in front of his eyes, unseeing. After a moment, he began mindlessly rattling the first thing that came to his mind – and did _not_ have anything to do with his brother.

"To prevent crime and disorder-

"_NO_. Don't give me that bullshit. I don't want you to tell me what you are _supposed_ to do. I want to know what you _want _to do. Not this crap you learned by heart when you started working here."

"What do you want, Alasdair?"

Strong fists curled around the chair's armrests tightly; his knuckles turned white as a sheet as his arms shook a little with the tension. A deep growl emitted from his throat.

"I don't know."

The woman on his lap wasn't impressed in the slightest; however, she could feel her patience run thin. How could one man alone be this thick-headed?!

"Yes, you do. What. Do. You. Want. Alasdair?"

"I don't. Fucking. KNOW."

Nessie shot up from her seated position and turned towards him furiously.

She stood before him, her hands on her hips; her eyes gleaming with impatient – and barely suppressed – rage. This bleeding moron was too prideful and too thick to admit his feelings to himself! This way, he was never going to solve _anything_ at all.

"Listen. Just because you don't want to admit that Artie-

Acidic green eyes snapped up to meet her gaze; his voice lowered to a dangerously quiet tone.

"_Don't_. Don't you dare call him that!"

For a split second, she shied away; she was used to him being loud and moody – but she knew, once he got silent, it was getting serious.

But. If he was too stubborn to realise himself, well, then she'd have to deal with not talking to him for a while. Nessie knew he wouldn't be angry for too long; he never was. He was easy to anger – something he had in common with most of his brothers – but it took a lot to actually get him to bear someone a grudge for longer than a few days.

Oh and of course, being his childhood friend and all, she had a slight benefit in this matter.

So, instead of retreating, she scoffed and held his livid gaze.

"Why not? We both used to call him that, remember? Back when we-

"_Shut up_, Nessie. I'm serious; just. Get. Out. Drop it! Leave me the fuck alone, okay?!"

A frustrated shriek left her mouth and she stomped a foot angrily.

"God! Why are you so bloody stubborn?! What is so hard about admitting it now, huh? You used to-

She stopped mid-sentence, as his fist crashed into the wall right next to her head.

He towered above her; his green eyes cold and hard with rage. His whole form shook with tension and he breathed heavily.

"IT'S NOT THE SAME! I am not the same anymore – and neither is he! So stop acting like it!"

Her cerulean eyes widened at this. She bristled and, with a shaking in her limbs, lifted her hand – and slapped him square across the face.

"Alasdair Kirkland, you are such a fucking hypocrite!"

With that, she turned around and burst through the door, leaving a shocked Scot in her wake.

The redhead stood still, slowly raising a hand to touch to his stinging cheek.

She had never hit him before.

What if she was right, though? What if he actually knew and-

No. No, no, no.

That was…not good. He had to concentrate; he had to keep this shit as far away from him as possible.

He needed

Air

Yes. A little fresh air would do him good, definitely. And…maybe a cigarette or two.

And so it happened that Alasdair Kirkland left the office early the day after the National Gallery in London was robbed of some of his most prized possessions.

He stomped down the hall, ignoring the scandalised cries of a woman he bumped into, sending her papers and handbag falling to the floor; ignoring the rumbling whispers and murmurs of his colleagues, already spreading new rumours about Nessie and him – he thought he heard something along the lines of "trouble in paradise" or something.

He just needed to get away from this. He needed a little distance; to think things over – or, well, rather to _not_ think things over.

As soon as he burst out of the front door, he fiddled around in his pocket, until he finally dragged out a pack of cigarettes and a blue lighter.

With slightly shaking hands, he brought the fag to his lips and lit it, taking a deep drag and, for a moment, merely concentrating on the feeling of the smoke cursing through his lungs. With a sigh that left a small cloud of the cancerous smoke hanging in the air, he turned and looked at the building he had just left.

NEW SCOTLAND YARD

…What he wanted to do, huh?

His eyes were fixed on the bold, silver letters on the dark background solemnly.

He closed them, shutting out the world around him completely.

The sound of the passing cars, the rumbling, meaningless chatter of the daily flow of people on the busy streets, the light drizzling of the faint rain around him; it was all lost on the Scot.

"…I want to get him back…"

* * *

_**Unimportant Rambling:** _Yeah, I know! Scotland's not the baddie this time! Really something new, isn't it? xD

And yes, I write them without accents - because I actually don't like it when people do that. I mean, you can never really get it right when you don't speak like that yourself and, honestly, I think it's just a little too annoying to keep up all the time. So. Just imagine the Scottish accent and please forgive me. :D

Anyway, I hope this doesn't suck as much as I think it does, so - a **Review** with your opinion would be great! I've only recently started writing - about two months ago, I think - and I would like to improve! ^^

_**Edit:** _I'm sorry for the fuss with the replaced chapter and all; but I needed to get a bit more information in it, so the second wouldn't be_ too_ much longer.

Oh, and I think I made Nessie a little more...gentle. Because, you know, having THREE hot-headed characters could maybe get a bit troublesome. ._.

I am really, really sorry if this is a bother to anyone or if you liked the first version better. ;_;


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